Ian Gallagher at Basic Training Camp
by theforgottenpeople
Summary: At the end of 3x12 Ian is on his way to BTC. This is a glimpse of what could be. This is my first attempt at a Gallavich fanfic, and the first time I've written in a while. Any constructive feedback is most welcome!


Mickey swaggered in like he owned the fucking place. Ian looked up and knew immediately what he was there for.

"You got any slim jims in this shit hole?" Mickey asked nonchalantly.

Ian gave a quick glance around the store, stood up, and walked around the counter to the door, locking it behind the last customer as she walked out. He turned.

"Yea, down in the back room." Ian replied, equally casual, as he passed Mickey, heading to the back of the store. He didn't have to check behind him, he knew Mickey was following. Ian could almost see clearly in his mind the devious look on the boys face as he began twirling off his scarf eagerly trailing close behind.

The encounter was quick and intense. No more words were spoken between the two. The dirty business was carried out with cool efficiency even as it was mingled with lust and longing. Their mutual need satisfied the boys hurriedly re-dressed themselves and made vague attempts to lessen the look of 'I just had sex' that hung around both their bodies like an aura.

Mickey was out of the back room first. He seemed to have forgotten that Ian was even there. Ian rushed out to get ahead of him, unlocked the front door, and opened it as Mickey swept out like a whirlwind. Ian stepped out of the store just behind him. Rather than leaving immediately, Mickey stood for a moment in the street, fixing the scarf around his neck.

Ian took this moment to break the silence between them. "So I guess this was like a booty call, huh?" He asked through an all too innocent smirk.

Mickey kept his eyes ahead of him, not looking at Ian, playing it cool. "Whatever. See ya."

And with that he was gone. Out into the street the boy went, his previous swagger that had briefly disappeared now returned. Ian watched him closely.

The redhead's mind was on fire. The experience had come and gone so fast he had barely had time to process what had happened. He took the time now. It was only the second time the two had been together. The first had seemed like a one-off. A spur of the moment explosion of physical need. Now, however, Ian couldn't help feeling that something more had begun. This encounter had not been random. Mickey had come to the Kash and Grab in the middle of the day, with a clear purpose in mind. That changed things, caused Ian to reevaluate the situation. As he watched Mickey get farther from him, eventually rounding a corner and going out of sight, Ian examined the emotions rushing through his system.

He felt a strange twist in his stomach, like a part of him had reacted physically to Mickey's presence, had contorted itself into an uncomfortable and slightly nauseating position. Ian could not, for the life of him, put a name to that feeling. All he knew is that it was there, and it meant something, and it didn't go away even after he had returned to his post. He sat there, his tasks for the day forgotten, staring up at the ceiling. Slowly he drifted deeper into his own mind, looking for answers, replaying the fresh memory of the back room as well as the stale one of Mickey's bedroom. As he watched those events like a film in his head he tried to analyze every motion Mickey had made, every subtle change in his expression, every word he had said and how he had said it. Ian tried to piece all these things together, tried to fit them into a narrative that made sense, that could explain the feeling in his stomach and maybe give him some insight into how to proceed.

His deep thinking was interrupted by the out-of-place cry of some brass instrument. The noise seemed to come from everywhere at once and the whole store began to shake and groan. Darkness took Ian.

Ian gasped desperately. He shot up in his bed and his head struck something solid above him with a loud metallic 'CLANG!' The shrill cry of the brass instrument continued to ring in his ears and the combination of having been violently pulled out of a deep sleep and the self-inflicted blow he had just received, prevented him from recognizing the sound. For several moments he just sat there, confused.

The realization of what the noise was and what it meant struck him like a bolt of lightning, and with it the memory of all that had happened to get him from that day at the Kash and Grab to where he was now, came flooding in. The weight of it forced another sharp intake of breath.

The shooting, juvie, "take your hand off the glass", the baseball field, Frank, "your nothing but a warm mouth to me", but he came back, Angie Zago, jealousy, "oh that's the guy you've been seeing", the kiss, the sleepover, Terry, the Russian whore, the pregnancy, the beat down, "feel better now", the wedding day, the decision, the house, "Don't…just", the sound a heart makes when it shatters, the long bus ride out of Chicago, out of Illinois. All those moments, memories, flashed in front of Ian's eyes in a confused and rapid series of images, and sounds, and emotions. It was like someone had taken all the pain of the last three years, pressed it into a compact pellet, and shot it right into his brain. It was enough to bring the tears and heaving sobs that he had once been a nightly routine.

But he could not give himself that release now. Ian was not in the Southside anymore. Fort Leonard Wood, St. Robert, Missouri. The place he had run away too. It was not a place he could cry in. Lip was not here, Fee was not here. No one who understood was here.

Ian opened his eyes and began to reorient himself. The morning bugle still rang out, the bang on the top of his head still throbbed. These things helped to ground Ian, to bring him out of his mind and back into reality.

It was then he realized that the boy in the top bunk above him had clambered out of his bed and onto the cold concrete ground of the barracks and was now staring down at him like he was an alien. Ian gave him a look that said "Got a problem asswipe?"

The boy just smirked, unimpressed, "You hit your head?"

Ian hated stupid questions, "Take a wild goddamn guess."

This only made the boy's smirk grow deeper and more self-satisfied, "Who's Mickey?"

"What?" Ian spat, trying to hide his panic.

"I said who the fuck is Mickey? You keep saying that name in your sleep, like it's a goddamn prayer or something." The boy could see the effect that his words were having on Ian, that he had touched on something deep.

Ian knew what the next line would be no matter what he said next. This conversation was so fucking predictable it made him want to puke. So instead of letting the inevitable "Is he your boyfriend or something" march its way out of the shit for brains standing before him, with a look on his face like he thought he was a fucking genius for thinking what Ian knew was rolling around behind that Neolithic forehead, Ian got up without a word and decked him right between the eyes. The boy toppled backward like a felled oak tree. The back of his head hit the ground hard, and his eyes rolled back.

Ian took the brief moment before the other boys in the barracks realized what had just happened, to reflect on his first week at basic training.

He had found pretty quickly that most of the other boys in his unit were pretty pathetically soft. Sure they were fit, and they talked tough, and some of them looked down right mean at first. But after the first few days Ian had discovered that almost to the man they were all from one small town or another, mostly from the south, with happy families, parents who weren't drug addicts, neighborhoods that didn't carry the constant threat of a mugging. Ian had grown up in the Southside. Ian had learned how to survive that harsh world since infancy. Ian had learned how to handle a knife before he had learned how to ride a bike. Ian knew how to read people, how to see, just from the way they moved, whether they were going to jump him or walk by him. Ian was leagues ahead of any of the other boys here.

That kind of difference, the fact that no one even came close, that kind of thing only breads resentment. So Ian had not tried to make any friends since he'd been at Fort Wood, in fact the thought of doing so hadn't been one that he had even really considered. And the others learned in the first days to give him a wide berth. Especially after what had gone down just a few days ago.

It had happened during lunch on the second day in the canteen. Ian had gotten his plate and gone off to sit by himself in a far corner. This act, which clearly signaled that he wanted to be left alone, somehow failed to perturb the blond haired, blue eyed, lean-bodied boy that came up and sat across from him. If Ian had been in a different head-space he might have thought the kid was actually pretty good looking. However, as it had only been a little under two days since he had walked, broken, from the Milkovich house, that kind of thing didn't even register.

The boy eyed him cautiously. After a brief moment he stuck his hand out, a little too enthusiastically, knocking over Ian's water bottle.

"Shit, sorry man!" the boy said through bright red cheeks, clearly fuming at his own clumsiness.

"Forget it." Ian waved him off, picking the bottle up, opening it, and taking a big swig. He wasn't actually all that thirsty; it was just something to do to avoid having to talk.

"Well anyway, my names Jack." The boy delivered flatly, thankfully not attempting another handshake.

Ian sighed mentally. He was now being drawn into something he had hoped to avoid at all costs. But he knew he couldn't just sit there and not say anything. He hadn't wanted to talk to anyone but he wasn't going to be an asshole.

"I'm Philip." And then he added before he could stop himself, "People call me Lip."

The boy, Jack, clearly seemed to take that as a sign that they were buddies now. Ian didn't know where he came from, but it must have been an easy going place because this kid seemed to give away so much so easily. Ian actually felt kinda bad for the guy considering what happened next. He probably was really nice. He probably genuinely wanted to make a friend, get to know Ian a little. And hey who the fuck knows maybe he was even gay and wanted to test the waters. None of that mattered though.

In an attempt to be friendly poor Jack wandered unwittingly into the den of a sleeping and mentally unbalanced guerilla, and woke it the fuck up.

"Yea I bet they call you that," he grinned, looking pretty pleased with himself, "More like firecrotch."

For a moment Ian just stared. The thoughts running through his head were literally crazy. Ian knew that. But just for that moment he believed them anyway. It seemed to him like somehow this fucking kid knew. He knew and he was making fun of the deep private pain of Ian Gallagher. Jack's grin contorted weirdly till it looked like a mocking smirk. His face suddenly looked ugly and mean. For a moment Ian just stared. Then he blacked out.

When he came to Ian had to quickly piece together what had happened in the few seconds of unconscious that had taken him. Jack lay sprawled out on the floor of the canteen, blood pouring from his nose, a look of confusion and panic in his eyes. Ian stood over him, his fists clenched hard into pure white balls of rage. Neither of his hands hurt though, so he knew he hadn't punched the kid. Suddenly he began to notice a sharp pain on his forehead. Ian almost laughed out loud when he realized what he must have done. He must have somehow launched himself across the table and rammed right into Jack's nose with his forehead. Ian had no idea how he had done that. But the look and Jack's face and the way the other boys in the room were looking at him only confirmed that that is what had happened.

"What the fuck man?" Jack yelled, obviously trying his hardest not to cry from the pain. From the looks of it, his nose was probably broken.

Ian said nothing. Ian had nothing to say. He just turned and walked out. He could feel the eyes of every person in the room following him out, burning into the back of his skull.

He went straight back to the barracks he had been assigned to, flopped into the lower bunk that was his, and waited for someone to come get him.

He couldn't have been there more than three minutes before a staff member broke noisily in.

"Philip Gallagher!" he barked sharply

Ian stood up briskly, took a few steps toward the man, saluted perfectly, and barked back "Sir!"

"I have orders to take you to Sergeant Finley ASAP!"

With that he turned on the spot and started in quick step, out of the barracks, across the marching square and toward the big red brick building on the west side of the Fort. Ian wasted no time in falling in behind.

Ian had met Sergeant Finley the day they had arrived at Fort Wood. He had given the new arrivals the classic boot camp run down. Insults and orders and descriptions of what to expect from basic training, flew out of his mouth like bullets from a tommy. Ian had expected that though. It was just like the movies.

After that initial exposure the arrivals were shown their quarters, taken on a five mile run, and given a briefing for the week. Ian had only half been there the whole time. His brain filtered out all the unimportant items and kept only what was essential. He had not held on to anything concerning disciplinary actions for starting fights.

So as he stood outside Finley's office he feared he may have royally fucked himself over. What would happen if they sent him home? He was supposed to be laying low; after all he was using Lip's name and identity. Now he had brought himself under the eye of the people in charge. How long before they take a closer look at that goddamn driver's license? Probably not long now that everyone in the canteen saw him throw his entire body into another guy's nose for no apparent reason.

His frantic worrying was interrupted as the door in front of him swung open and Finley stepped out. Ian saluted. He tried to read the expression on Finley's face, but it was impossible. It could have been amusement just as easily as it could have been murder.

Finley moved aside from the doorway "At ease." He grumbled and gestured for Ian to step inside and have a seat.

Ian broke his salute, walked in and sat. Finley followed, moving stiffly through the room until he was behind his desk. He remained standing so that Ian had to talk to him with his head raised. Finley was a tall man, and broad. His hair was both grey and black and cut in sharp military fashion. His face was angular, blocky even. His arms were covered in a thick coat of white hair. His eyes were fierce and brown and they stared, unwavering, right into Ian's. Ian held his gaze. For a few moments they just stared at each other.

"You salute good Gallagher," Finley growled breaking the silence "you ROTC?"

"Sir, yes, sir." Ian shot back.

"Chicago?"

"Yes, sir."

"Guess you ain't too good at making friends, huh?"

"Sir, I guess not sir."

"The fuck he say to you?"

"Sir, I'd rather not say, sir."

Finley's eyebrows rose slightly at that. He looked slightly confused, like he wasn't used to kids not immediately answering his questions fully. After a moment, though, he seemed to decide not to press Ian on that one.

He shrugged, "Well, fuck if I care. We always have a fight or two the first few days, but never anything like this. Must have been pretty bad the way you jumped at him."

"Sir."

Finley sighed and sat in his chair, "Look kid, I get that its tough here. Dealing with new shit for tits strangers that don't know you from Adam, but we got rules here. Shit like this, it don't sit right with me. All you tiny pink fuckers are supposed to be bonding or at least putting up with each other. Your goanna have a hard time convincing the other boys you ain't a bloodthirsty maniac after that goddamn stunt."

Ian just sat there, not sure what to say, or where this conversation was going.

Finley, realizing Ian wasn't going to say anything, continued, "I should kick your ass the fuck out of here. I don't know whether this kid deserved a broken nose or whether you're just a punk who likes hurting things. I don't give punks guns. Punks with guns makes me very fucking uncomfortable. So you got one more shot. Show me you're not a punk and you get a gun. Deal?"

As he said that last word, Finley rose up out of his seat, clearly expecting Ian to do the same. Ian obliged.

"Deal. Sir." Ian said quickly, relieved that nothing worse had happened.

Finley held out his hand and Ian took it. One quick up down motion and Ian saluted, turned on his heel, opened the door, and walked out of the office.

Ian stood over the kid he had just knocked out, whose name he couldn't even remember, and thought to himself, "Well I guess I'm a fucking punk then."


End file.
